“You’re talking about you and Dad now. That’s totally different than my dancing.”
“Why?” she asked. “I loved your father and wanted him to be someone he couldn’t be. You love dance and wanted it to grow into something it couldn’t.”
“Mom …” I should tell her everything, I thought. Prove to her how wrong she is. But I couldn’t. I was afraid she’d refuse to let me audition for Cinderella, or worse, that she’d forbid me from dancing forever. And we were finally getting to a better place, Mom and I. Now I didn’t want to ruin things with an argument.
I turned away, grabbing the Cartellata gelato from the counter. “I’ll put this in the deep freeze, and then see if Lanz needs help out front.” I mustered up a smile, then kissed her cheek. “And thanks for the carnival. I’m super excited to go!”
Mom took up humming again. I vowed to shake off her words about dance and focus on what was happening here and now. Mom was happy, and I loved seeing her this way. I stepped inside the freezer, then paused, taking in the towers of containers rising before me. The freezer was twice as full as it had been before Lanz started working here. It was stacked with flavors that Lanz had invented—Peter Panforte, Rumpeltwixkin, Licorice Red Riding Hood, Bibbity-Bobbity-Mou. Many were blended with Italian candies and chocolate, such as the toffee-like mou I’d tried and loved. I’d been so consumed with my lessons at the conservatory, I hadn’t noticed the transformation taking place right under my very nose.
I left the freezer and eased the swinging door to the front of the parlor open, peeking in.
“Buon pomeriggio, Madison!” Lanz cried as a little girl ran into the shop, her black curls and bathing suit covered in sand. He bowed to her and then took her hand, letting her twirl underneath his arm as he said hello to her parents. “Have you come for your Principessa Struffoli sundae?” She nodded, and he breezed behind the counter, grabbing a sundae tray with a flourish. “Va bene, are you ready?”
He curled a heaping scoop of the Italian-cookie-filled ice cream onto the scooper, then launched it catapult-style into the air, spun around, and caught it in the sundae bowl behind his back. Madison squealed with delight. He wasn’t just making a sundae, he was giving a performance. When he finished, every customer in the shop applauded.
Lanz turned back to the counter, catching sight of me.
“Spying on me, eh?”
“No.” Heat rushed to my cheeks.
He raised an eyebrow. “You are a terrible liar.” I took two steps into the parlor, and Lanz cocked his head to one side, watching me. “And … you’re hurting.”
“It’s nothing.” I lowered my voice so Mom wouldn’t hear. “My feet are sore from the pointe shoes. That’s all.”
He glanced down at my feet, concern crinkling his brow.
I brushed past him to take the order of the next customer in line. “I need to keep practicing. The auditions are only—”
“Six days away,” Lanz finished for me. “I know, Malie. I pay attention.”
“You have to,” I said, scooping some panna cotta ice cream into a cone for a high schooler in a wet suit. “Because of your mom.”
“I don’t have to,” he said quietly. “I want to. Because it’s important to you.” Warmth stirred inside me, and I started to turn away, but he stopped me.
“You’re always trying to run away. Have you noticed? I wonder sometimes if you believe dance is all you need. Nothing else. No one else.”
“I don’t think that. I have Ethan, Tilly, Andres. And—” I stopped just short of adding you, not knowing how he might respond.
He paused over the cone he was scooping. “And me, I hope?”
“Of course. You too,” I added, flustered. He studied my face with that quizzical expression he seemed to reserve just for me. That look had grown familiar over the past weeks of working side by side. Even so, it set my pulse flickering every time.
“You know, you make me think of two customers who visit my father’s gelateria each Friday. An old woman and her pet potbellied pig, Porcini.”
I snorted. “You’re kidding.”
Lanz shook his head. “No. This is truth.” He loved to tell me stories about Italy and his dad’s shop, but a potbellied pig? This was a first. “This woman buys ten gallons of pistachio gelato every week for this pig. When my father once asked her why, she said it was to console the pig. Because Porcini dreams of being a cow.”
I burst out laughing. “Wait a sec. If you tell me I’m the pig in this story, I’ll dump ice cream on your head.”
“Never.” He grinned impishly. “But Papa likes to get on his knees before Porcini. He says, ‘Porcini, the life of a gelato-eating pig is a fine life. Let it be enough.’ ” He looked at me with one eyebrow raised, until I nudged his shoulder.
“What?”
He nudged me back. “Sometimes, you can let now be enough.”
I paused over his words, my scoop in my hand. Now. What was happening now?
Now Mom’s smile was resurfacing for the first time in I couldn’t even remember how long, and I realized how much Lanz had to do with that.
I thought about telling him that, but soon a flurry of customers were rushing in, and there was no chance for any more talking. My feet ached as the hours passed. As the sun began to set and many of the customers headed off, Mom came out of the kitchen smiling (again!).
“You must have made a hundred sundaes today,” she said to us.
“More.” I leaned against the counter.
“I’ll close up tonight,” she said. “You two have homework to do, or Instagram pics to post, or something better to do.” Lanz started to protest, but she waved us both away. “Go on. Get out of here.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice,” I replied, then ducked as she threw a hand
